


forgiveness.

by asnanana



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, i don't know what else to tag ??, two really stubborn people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 12:08:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15339570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asnanana/pseuds/asnanana
Summary: It's high time you both swallowed your pride and ripped the band-aid off.





	forgiveness.

**Author's Note:**

> hi im a piece of shit writer and this was the only thing that i could write for frank without trying to throw myself off a bridge. i hope you all like it. please dont hesitate to comment or just say hi!

Pain blossoms along the bones of his hands like a blooming flower, traveling along each nerve and neuron, setting them alight with a burning fire in each movement he takes. The fragile skin on his knuckles splits beneath each brute punch, but he remains unconcerned with the decimating pain—instead, reveling in the feeling alone. He takes it as a sign to continue, fixated under the belief that if he didn't feel the pain in this moment, he wouldn't remember what it was like to be  _ alive. _ If he couldn’t feel the blood pumping through his veins and his heart thrusting out of his chest, he would never remember the brief instance of humanity surging through his body.

The pain served as the only tether he had to reality; The only reminder that he wasn’t just a ghost of a shell walking through the streets of the burning city.

The gym sat empty and dark, save for him in his corner towards the back of the establishment, enjoying the equipment way past the set closing time. The owner—an older man who claims he is forever indebted to Frank for saving him from a potentially lethal mugging—left the back door open for Frank in the event that, should he need it, he could access the tools necessary to release any stress he could have accumulated.

Frank insisted to the man that he didn't need to do that, that Frank was more than happy to keep paying his membership like everyone else, but the man refused to hear it. He placed a spare key in Frank’s palm with a wrinkly smile, saying,  _ "She's all yours after closing. Just remember to lock the door. _ "

It was a kind gesture, a particularly uplifting one, that left Frank in a better mood than he had been in before. He kept the key close to him, safe inside the pocket of his worn-down gym bag he took to the gym.

He doesn't remember what time he got in or how long he's been there, but he assumes a considerable amount of time has passed since the entirety of his back is covered in sweat and his hands ache beyond belief, but he refuses to stop.

While his muscles ache and burn with each jab he places against the punching bag, screaming in desperation for Frank to just  _ take a break _ , the haunting images that seem to be incredibly popular this evening drive him to work harder and faster than before. And he won’t stop.

_ Jab. Jab. Upper cut. Left hook. Jab. Jab. _

He won't stop until he can no longer feel anything. Until he can no longer see his kids. Until he can no longer see Maria's face. Until hollow eyes and bloodied skin no longer taunt him. Until--

"Prepping for an upcoming match, Rocky?"

The phrase echoes around the empty gym, the acoustics bouncing the sound around the room, that momentarily stuns him into stillness. He halts his onslaught of punches, outstretching his previously curled fingers to catch the swinging bag he that was flying towards his head. He steadies the piece of equipment, catching it with the tips of his fingers, steadying his panting breaths.

He gently closes his eyes, leaning his head against the bag as he listens to the owner of the familiar voice come out of the shadows of the gym and step closer towards him. The echoes of the shoes resonate throughout the vacant gym. Once the loud  _ clunking  _ of shoes stops, he exhales a deep breath, swallowing the lump that suddenly formed in his throat, more than symbolic of the current situation he was put in.

He didn't need to look to know who was standing before him, nor did he  _ want _ to look. Looking would only force a resurfacing of memories that Frank would much rather keep hidden.

There was a  _ reason  _ things ended when they did.

There was a  _ reason _ he never tried to contact you.

Swallowing whatever pride, he lifted his head from the bag, opening his eyes and shifting his head towards the intruder.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting to see; Some twisted part of him wanted to see you looking damaged beyond repair, in a pain deeper than he ever was. The brutal,  _ vengeful  _ part of him wanted to see you on your hands and knees, begging and pleading for his help, as though that would be some sort of step towards mending the deep wound between you two. (It certainly wouldn’t be a great situation for you, but it would definitely be the first thing to be put a smile on Frank’s face.)

But of course, that would never happen. You were always smart enough to know when to jump out of a burning plane, both metaphorically and literally. Something that felt like a brand on his skin; A present reminder of the mark you left.

You stand in front of him, hands deep in the pockets of your pants—which Frank rightly assumes are some luxury brand from a designer whose name he would never remember—standing tall and  _ healthy _ and  _ clean _ , in your professional ensemble, leaning against a structural beam with a small smirk on your face. Amusement plays in your eyes as you scan his very taught and sweaty body.

He can feel the anger building up inside of him and the desire to punch something comes back full force.

He doesn't like it.

Frank tears his eyes away from you, his jaw clenching and teeth gritting as he returns his attention back to the blue punching bag in front of him.

"You followin' me now?" he spits at you, the question drenched in acid, very clearly warning you not to take any step closer as though you were a predator preying on a poisonous animal. It paints a funny picture in your head, one where you were some type of bird and him a poisonous dart frog, circling one another in the undergrowth of a forest.

It wasn't an ill-fitting picture as it represented your current relationship perfectly with little to no exaggerations.

You wished it didn't.

You release a breath of amusement through your nose, shrugging off his cold shoulder with ease, focusing on him as he resumes his reign of anger on the bag, "Don't need to. I'm always keeping tabs on you, Frankie. I've got eyes everywhere."

His eyes narrow in disdain, and if there was any possibility of civility between you two it was out the window now.

He was making it very clear he did not like that idea.

You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly at him, trying to hold an unfazed facade in front of him. His punches continue, only this time with much more force and you  _ know  _ he's imagining your face on the bag. "Don't act surprised. I'm an Avenger, I have that kind of power."

"Don't mean you gotta use it," he pants.

"On you? Oh, yes I do. You tend to get in a lot of shit Frankie."

"Yeah?"  _ Jab. Jab. Left hook, " _ Well that's my business, not yours."

"I'm just making sure you're okay," you tell him, voice gentler than the previous teasing tone. He spares you a glance of uncertainty, his eyes darting from your eyes back to the bag in front of him, then back to you, the second time holding your gaze. He takes a step away from the bag, narrowly missing being hit by the bag when it swings forward at him.

His gloved hands hang at his side and his chest heaves with breaths, the sweat forcing his shirt to stick to his skin and glisten in the fluorescent lights.

It's the first time he's actually  _ looked  _ at you. Not even just the first time tonight, but the first time in years. It feels like he’s staring through you and it brings back a whole wave of feelings that you thought you could handle, but were very wrong. His hollow eyes stare into yours, an angry vengeance deep in his brown irises that sends chills down your spine.

He makes you feel a deep insecurity in the joints of your bones and you couldn’t feel like more of a bad guy than you did at that moment. His fixed look makes you crave for something as sweet as torture. You try to maintain a neutral face under his scrutinizing gaze only for your body to release the awkwardness of the intensity through fidgeting and shifting of your body.

"That so?" he asks, his stare rock solid and unwavering accompanying a deep gruff of his voice that sends shivers down the entirety of your spine. Suddenly, it all makes sense; You now understand the fear that comes with being the enemy of Frank Castle.

You had heard rumors in passing of the type of trepidation Frank could produce in even the hardest of men—the kind of fear that scares people for life, forcing them to constantly look over their shoulders, even when they've moved miles away from him. He instills a distress into his victims that haunts them for years to come, wondering if he remembers them, if he will finally come back and finish the job he started. Frank Castle’s name became synonymous with the Devil.

If anything, he was scarier.

It stirs up a sweat in your body that beads at the top of your forehead and wets your palms. Once upon a time, you had been able to say with confidence that Frank Castle would never hurt you. He would hurt anyone who so much as looked at you the wrong way. Now, you weren't so sure. If given the chance, you’re pretty sure he would pay a good fortune to have someone do more than that.

You take a thick swallow, working quickly to compose yourself in front of him. You returned his intimidating gaze as best as you could, his stone-cold eyes overpowering your sincere ones by a long shot.

"We've had our problems, but that doesn't mean I don't care about you," your voice shakes a bit as you say it, and you curse at yourself. You've faced men three times your size and aliens more dangerous than Frank Castle could ever dream to be and you never batted an eye. Yet, standing in front of him, you feel all confidence and pride leaving your body in one, quick breath. You were not a long-time friend of Frank Castle that could reminisce with him about the good old days in the military. You were not a long-time friend that could happily ask about his family in passing and receive a pleasant answer. You were not who you were five or six years ago. And neither was he.

You didn't know this man—not anymore. He made it  _ damn  _ clear he doesn’t want to know you.

Frank scoffs, and it sounds like one of amusement but his face makes no change to convey that feeling. It stays steady and unwelcoming, with his lips pulled in tight and his eyebrows furrowed.

"What, you think I don't care about you?" your voice raises a few octaves.

His silence answers your question, and you feel offended at the insinuation. How shallow does he think you are?

"What're you doin' here?" he says rather impatiently. He finally breaks the fixation on you, looking down at the gloves on his hand and ripping the Velcro off. He backtracks towards the back wall and places the gloves on top of his gym bag seated there. You watch him intently, all desire to defend yourself dying at the tip of your tongue. Your damaged ego could pick a fight on that another time.

"I'm here to help." you tell him, gathering whatever morsel of pride you could to make yourself sound more confident than you felt. His back is turned to you as he bends down to his bag, placing the gloves in and taking a towel out. He dries the sweat on the back of his neck.

"Don't need it."

"C'mon, Frank" you groan out, taking a step to him rather excitedly. He sees the quick motion from the corner of his eye and his body whips around to face yours, a defensive stance taking root. It stops you in your tracks, and you can feel your heart crack at the further realization: Not only did he not trust you, or believe that you cared about him, but he was preparing for an instance where  _ you  _ would physically  _ hurt him _ for God knows how long.

You expected the anger and the distrust, but… that hurt more than it should have.

You softly shake your head, and Frank can barely see the wet film of tears in your eyes, but he sees it. He almost feels guilty— _ almost. _

"Ain't nothing to "c'mon" about. I don't need your help; I don't want your help. Whoever you got keepin' eyes on me, get rid of 'em before I find 'em." He leans back down to his bag, throwing the towel inside and zipping it up roughly, almost breaking the zipper in the process. He throws it over his shoulder, slowly turning himself back around to face your pitiful face. "Don't come looking for me again."

With a final adjustment of the bag on his shoulder, he makes his way towards the back door from which he came in. He almost makes it there, ready to flip the light switch off before he hears your voice call out for him again.

"I know who you're looking for."

He stops in his tracks.  _ Why are you making this harder than it needs to be? _

"I know where to find him too."

That piques his interest. It doesn't totally surprise him—of course  _ you  _ would know where everyone is considering your job title. He'd been looking for an underground kingpin that was responsible for the kidnapping of a number of underage kids in the area-- including his next-door neighbor's daughter. Only makes sense that you would have some knowledge of that.

He slowly turns around, glancing rather suspiciously at the file that you've seemingly procured out of thin air in your hands. It's a thick file, much too big for your hands. He can see the numerous clippings and paper clips from the side of it, even in the dim lighting of the gym.

"Turns out that the guy you're looking for is the same guy that I've been tracking for the past seven months," you look down at the file in your hands, a wry smile on your face. "Kidnapping isn't the only thing he does."

Frank places his bag on the floor, letting it drop with an intentional  _ thud _ . You've got his attention; how long can you keep it?

"Kidnapping wasn't enough to get on your radar?" Frank says rather bitterly, a blatant jab at you and your job. It stings, but it's not like you could disagree. You already put yourself and the other Avengers through a whole load of shit for ignoring the monster that was slowly growing under the sewers of your home,  _ your  _ city.

You could make excuses left and right to those who asked about how your job as "Earth's Mightiest Hero" allowed for mistakes as big as not paying attention to a child trafficker making himself known right under your noses, to which your publicist would say something along the lines of “ _ The Avengers try to pay attention to every situation, both domestically and abroad. But situations that are not of immediate concern are passed down the branches _ ” or something like that. It would pass in the papers, but you would never be able to justify it to yourself. You tended to take every case presented to heart and have already been lectured numerous amounts of times on how that was your greatest weakness. Old habits die hard, and Frank knew that.

He always knew the right ways to hurt you.

You let out a dry laugh, looking at Frank with a borderline shameful expression, "I deserved that one."

"You deserve a lot more than what I'm giving you."

" _ Yeah,  _ Frank. I  _ know. _ I got it, alright?" The agitation was apparent, but Frank was never one to back down from a challenge.

"Do you? Do you  _ really _ ?" He replies, his tone only elevating the vicious turn the conversation was taking.

"Yeah, Frank. I do. It haunts me every day!" you yell at him, the file laying forgotten in your hands as you stare at him from a distance away. There was no doubt in your mind that you would have this discussion with him at some point in time. You had hoped it would be under nicer circumstances, where you both weren’t under the constraints of a child trafficker wreaking havoc upon the city.

Frank once again stands silent at your confession, unable to figure out what angle you were trying to play at. Were you trying to get sympathy points from him? Were you trying to get under his skin and manipulate him? He didn't know. He doesn't know you anymore.

"You really think that I'm just okay with the way things happened?" You tell him, a gentle contrast to the previous agitation in your statement.

He maintains his space near the door, reminding himself to be ready to leave whenever this conversation turns down a path he didn't want. Before you managed to convince him to forgive you; Before you managed to weasel your way back into his life with a smile and a temptation of a better future.

But he found his feet glued to the floor, unable to move, unable to plan his escape as you looked at him with pain and suffering in your eyes. In the eyes, he always found comfort in, and the heart he felt the most.

It was too late to leave now; You had already caught him in your hold, even if you didn't know it.

"I let you down, Frank. I abandoned you when you needed me, and I will never forgive myself for that," you raised a hand to your cheek, furiously rubbing away a stray tear that slipped out.  _ You would not break in front of him. You needed to make this up to him. _ "But I was scared. Too scared to go against a man who did so many bad things to people."

You slowly took a step closer to Frank, showing him you meant no harm. "I couldn't go against someone who could easily destroy my life, who  _ threatened _ to do that. But, you did. And you paid the price for that."

He knew he should've stopped you--stopped you from talking, from coming closer to him, from coming back into his life. But with every word you said, he found himself remembering his days with you, his happiest memories working alongside you in the military. He found himself slowly melting back into the repressed memories where his trust was easy to come by and your companionship tethered him back down to earth.

His resolve, his anger, his distrust, was slowly wearing away.

"I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I'm not asking you to accept me into your life. I'm not even asking you to  _ like  _ me." He didn't even notice you were standing in front of him, a foot away from his unsteady heart and uneven breaths. "I'm asking you to let me make it up to you. Because I wasn't there to help you take down Agent Orange, but I'm here to help you with this guy. I know how he works, I know what he does, and I know how to take him down."

You shrugged your shoulders lightly, not knowing what else you could say to the man in front of you, how else you could describe the remorse that had been weighing on your shoulders for the past five years. In your moment of fear, in the face of the threat from the formidable Agent Orange as a young agent, you resigned from your post within the United States Information Operation, effectively cutting ties with Frank Castle who so desperately needed your help to try and find information to take down the corrupt man. You left him to deal with the problem alone, when you agreed to help. You remained isolated from Frank Castle, even after he tried numerous times to get in contact with you after the end of his deployment.

Then the attempts stopped, and you soon learned about the fate of his family. More importantly, you knew from who. You didn't bother to try and contact him.

When he could've-- and should've-- thrown the dogs off his scent and averted them to you, Frank Castle didn't. He denied your involvement in anything related to Agent Orange; He denied having ever asked you for help; He denied ever even  _ knowing  _ you.

He protected you. As you publicly rose through the ranks at your new job as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, Frank Castle was suffering through the landmine you had both tried to clear. Frank Castle's life was destroyed, and yet he had no desire to destroy yours.

That was a debt you could never repay.

Even if he told you to fuck off, or spit in your face, it wouldn't be anything you didn't deserve. But, if he gave you even the slightest chance to make it up to him, you would do your damndest to fulfill it.

You were already willing to lay down your life for him, you just had to prove you were even worth that honor.

Your eyes darted around his face, looking for some sign that revealed what he was thinking. A twitch in the lip, the raise of a brow, something that you could try and decipher. He remained stoic in his place, watching you beg before him.

"Let me help you," you pleaded to him one last time.

He tore his eyes from yours and stared down at the bag at his feet.  _ God, what was he doing? _ With an inaudible grunt, he leaned down to pick up the bag and throw it over his shoulder once again.

You stared at him desperately, feeling your heart about to drop into your stomach at the realization that he would never forgive you, nor would he ever help you. And now, there would be nothing you could say to stop him otherwise. You would let him go. You wouldn't hurt him anymore.

With a sad resolve, you closed your mouth, letting your objections die on your lips and prepared to watch him do what you did all those years ago: Turn his back. You lowered your head, holding the file in front of your legs and waited patiently to hear the sound of his shoes leave the building, holding the disappointment tightly on a leash.

Instead, you heard him sigh.

"Your place or mine?"

You quickly met his eyes, and were surprised to find a gentleness behind the stones, although his face showed no other emotion. You blinked repeatedly, his words barely registering inside of your head. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words could form.

"M-mine." You finally stuttered, not able to grasp the reality of the situation.

He gently nodded his head, stepping to the side to allow you to lead him out of the building. After staring blankly at him, you understood the gesture, exiting the building and waiting for him to find you in the back alley, entire body stunned at the turn of events.

He followed behind you, turning the lights off and locking the back door to the gym, placing the key into his bag. He ignored your stunned stare, preferring to keep all his feelings and thoughts to himself for the time being.

He had forgiven you a long time ago. There was nothing that he could really blame you for other than being a young and scared cadet in the military. It was a massively responsibility he thrusted upon you, knowing full and well that there were very few that would be able to do it. He wasn’t angry that you jumped ship and resigned from your post after Agent Orange threatened your life; He was angry that he didn’t.

He should have denied helping you on the basis alone that you didn’t deserve it. But Frank could never be that cruel to you, not when he was also in need of some help.

He had forgiven you a long time ago, because it was the right thing to do. And it was time for him to stop acting like that was a bad decision.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr: @haztory


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